


Life Is Like A Box Of Chocolates

by flawedamythyst



Series: Stamford [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 03:32:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6221947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently, there are some gaps in Sherlock's knowledge of poisons.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Written for Trills's request for more fic with puppy!Stamford. No puppies were harmed in the making of this fic but there may be some dog-related inaccuracies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life Is Like A Box Of Chocolates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trillsabells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trillsabells/gifts).



Today was a lovely day so John had bought his laptop out to the garden to write in. In theory, it was a great plan, but the reality was that the light reflected off the screen and made it tricky to read, there was the constant danger of losing his notes to a light breeze and he kept realising that the things he needed were still inside the house.

Stamford wandered around near-by for a while, nosing at various exciting things such as rocks and flowers before he got bored and wandered off. John didn't pay a lot of attention as he finally found his writing zone, letting the words flow out of him. 

It was starting to get a bit chilly when Sherlock came back from the hives with a scowl.

“I think I'm going to have to replace the queen in hive three,” he announced.

John made a humming noise that he hoped conveyed just how little he was interested.

“Hive seven is recovering well from the wax moth incident,” continued Sherlock, apparently oblivious. “I don't think we need to worry about it failing now.”

John hadn't been worried. “That's good,” he said, carrying on his typing and hoping Sherlock would stop breaking his concentration.

Sherlock huffed out a sigh that meant he was aware of what John was doing. “I suppose you want a cup of tea.”

John looked up at him and found a smile. “That would be nice, thanks.”

“I think I liked it better when you were at such a loose end that you made tea every few hours,” said Sherlock, turning towards the house.

“That's nice, dear,” said John in the most absent-minded voice he could manage.

Sherlock just snorted as he went inside.

“John!” he called a moment later.

John sighed. He'd just about been clinging on to the shape of the paragraph he was writing, but if Sherlock didn't shut up he'd end up losing it. “Give me a moment to finish this bit!”

“It's the dog!” called back Sherlock, with just enough urgency for John to abandon his sentence and rush inside.

Stamford was lying on his side in a pile of torn apart cardboard, vomit and smeared chocolate. He raised his head weakly and whined at the sight of John.

“Oh god,” said John, dropping to his knees by his side. “Stamford, it's okay, boy. We'll get you sorted.”

“Get _him_ sorted?” said Sherlock. “Your mutt has destroyed my chocolate!”

John sent him a glare. “Chocolate poisons dogs,” he snapped. “Get the car, we need to take him to a vet. Right now!”

Sherlock started, but John wasn't looking at him. He stroked over Stamford's neck. “It's going to be okay,” he said. “Just hold on, Stamford. Good boy.”

Stamford whined again, weakly kicking out his paws.

“Get the car,” said John to Sherlock again. “I'll bring him out.”

Sherlock finally moved, heading outside. John stood up again, ignoring the cracking of his knees as he darted into the sitting room to grab the blanket off the back of his chair. He wrapped it carefully around Stamford then picked him up.

Stamford's mouth was hanging open as he panted out rapid breaths. John carried him outside as carefully as he could, really hoping he wasn't about to get vomit - or worse - all down him.

Sherlock had the car out of the garage already, engine running as he waited in the driver's seat. John climbed into the back with Stamford, setting him down on the seat as gently as he could before pulling the door shut. “Okay, go.”

Sherlock pulled away as if they were going after a murderer. John kept his hands on Stamford, one keeping him in place while the other stroked over his fur as if John could make him better just from his touch. Sitting in the back with him like this made him think of their first trip in a car together, when they'd been bringing him home from the farm where he'd been born. He'd been so small then.

“You're going to be okay,” John told him. Stamford stared at him with large, trusting eyes that made John feel like an utter heel.

“What the hell was that chocolate doing within his reach anyway?” he asked. He hadn't bought it. If he had, it would have been in one of the high cupboards, where Stamford couldn't get at it and John could reach it without bending over, which was getting harder every year.

There was an ominous silence from the front of the car.

“Sherlock?” asked John.

Sherlock huffed a sigh. “I had no idea either that he would get at it, or that it was bad for him.”

John clenched his jaw. “ _Everyone_ knows chocolate poisons dogs.”

“Just like everyone knows wax moths are bad news for bees?” snapped back Sherlock.

Apparently he was still holding a grudge over the fact that John hadn't immediately identified an insect he'd seen on one of Sherlock's hives last week.

“That's hardly the same thing at all.”

Stamford twitched and shuddered under John's hand and he abandoned the argument so that he could turn his attention back to him. They pulled up right outside the vet and John scooped Stamford back up in his arms and rushed in, leaving Sherlock to close the car door behind him.

Inside, the staff took one look at Stamford and ushered John into a treatment room, where a vet did a careful examination of Stamford.

“We're going to have to pump his stomach.”

Oh god.

Sitting in the waiting room with Sherlock stiff and silent beside him made John's stomach clench up with fear. What would he do if Stamford didn't make it? What if he lost his sheer delight at seeing John every morning, his boundless enthusiasm with him on their rambles over the South Downs, the way he'd rest his head on John's foot when he was on the sofa in the evening?

“I had no idea that chocolate was a danger,” said Sherlock, breaking the silence in the stilted, emotionless voice that meant he was finding this hard to admit. “I apologise.”

John wasn't in the mood to forgive him. “Why the hell did you have that much chocolate anyway? And why put it on that shelf? There's a reason I never put anything important on it.”

Sherlock was silent for long enough that John assumed that he wasn't going to answer and turned his mind back to Stamford.

“It was indicated to me that such a thing would be an acceptable present for tomorrow, to represent my appreciation for your role in my life.”

John blinked and ran the sentence through his head a couple of times. “They were for me? But-” He frowned. “What's tomorrow?”

There was a heartfelt sigh from Sherlock. “The fifteenth of June.”

That did not enlighten John. “Right,” he said, slowly.

“Twenty years ago, tomorrow, we came to a mutual understanding,” said Sherlock.

A mutual understanding. “Wait. It's our anniversary?” Christ, had it really been twenty years? That made John feel old. He glanced at Sherlock, who was resolutely staring at a poster about worming medication.

“You poisoned my dog for our anniversary?”

Sherlock twitched and then stood up. “I should go back to the cottage. We left the back door open, and your laptop and everything out. Call me when you want me to come and pick you up.”

He strode out before John could say anything, leaving him there with the receptionist's sympathetic stare.

****

It was late by the time John phoned Sherlock to come and pick him up. He'd had to take a few minutes after the vet had told him that Stamford would be fine just to draw in breath, and then they'd said if he waited a bit he could see Stamford before he left. They wanted to keep him overnight for observation, but they seemed to think he'd be fine to go home the next day.

The hours John had spent waiting had given him too much time to run over his reaction earlier and regret it, but it still took him until Sherlock had driven him nearly all the way home before he could bring himself to speak.

“I'm sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have reacted as if you'd done it intentionally.”

Sherlock had been silent after his initial enquiry after Stamford's health. He glanced over at John, then back to the road. “It's fine,” he said. “I understand that you were rather emotional.” He paused for a long time before adding, “And I should have factored the dog in when considering hiding places for the chocolate.”

“You should have just put it in your shed,” said John. “I never go in there.” Sherlock's shed was filled with mysterious bee-keeping apparatus, including several that looked enough like torture instruments to make John wonder if they weren't left over from a case.

“Too obvious,” said Sherlock. “That would have been the first place you'd have looked.”

John frowned. “The first place I'd have looked when searching for an anniversary present I didn't know existed? It's not as if we've ever done anything for it before.” And then, because the question had been on the tip of his tongue for too long, “What made you decide to do something this year?”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder as he turned into their driveway. “I mentioned to Molly in an email that it was going to be twenty years and she seemed to think it was important that some sort of gesture was made. She said the traditional gifts were flowers or chocolate, and we already have a garden full of flowers.”

He pulled the car up and turned the engine off.

“So you got me possibly the biggest box of chocolates ever made instead,” said John. He reached out and took Sherlock's hand, running a thumb over the back of it.

Sherlock looked down at their hands. “When I was in the shop, looking at all the choices, I realised that whatever I picked had to signify how important the last twenty years have been to me,” he said, quietly. “None of them looked even close to being able to do that, so I just went with the biggest.”

John couldn't keep in a smile. He raised Sherlock's hand so that he could kiss the back of it. “Thank you.”

****

 

The next day, John called the vet in the morning and was told he could pick Stamford up and bring him home within an hour or two.

“Do you want me to drive you?” asked Sherlock, as John put his coat on.

John didn't really like driving and usually would have taken Sherlock up on his offer, but this time he shook his head. “I'm okay. You stay with your bees.”

He ignored Sherlock's tiny frown as he left. He had mostly forgiven Sherlock, especially once he'd found that he'd cleared up the mess in the kitchen and made John dinner, but that didn't mean he wasn't content to let him stew a little bit.

Before he went to collect Stamford, he popped into the village. There was one shop that had a small array of cards and he stood for some time, staring at them. None of them were anything close to what he could give Sherlock without being ridiculed.

“Special occasion, is it, John?” asked Yvonne, who ran the shop.

John sent her a vague smile. “Our anniversary.” He pulled out a card that looked as if it might do, then hurriedly put it back when it turned out to have a teddy bear on it.

“Oh, lovely!” she said. “How many years have you been together?”

“Twenty,” said John, pulling one out that had a very generic picture of some flowers on it. Too girly? He opened it to find _Happy anniversary to the perfect wife_ written in pink, curly font, and put it back.

“Oh! Congratulations!” gushed Yvonne. “That's wonderful! Are you doing something special?”

“Buying a card,” said John. Or trying to. Ah, there. A National Trust one with a tree on it. Boring, but at least it wasn't horrific.

“Ah,” said Yvonne as he turned to pay for it. “Is that it?”

He shrugged. “First time we've ever actually bothered with an anniversary. I think a card is enough.”

She looked very doubtful as she scanned it. “Are you sure?”

John hesitated, glancing around at the available gifts in the shop. Nothing inspired him. “Yes.”

“You could always pick him up some chocolate or something as well, I suppose.”

He felt himself twitch. “No,” he said firmly. “No chocolate. Definitely not.”

“Ah, okay,” she said, taking his money. “Wine, then?”

Wine was actually a pretty good idea. There was a tiny wine cellar just off what passed for a main road. They might have something a bit special.

“Yes, all right,” he said, taking the card. “Thanks.”

She beamed at him. “Tell Sherlock congratulations from me as well.”

“Of course,” said John, thinking that there was no chance of that. Sherlock would only be confused as to why it was any concern of hers.

He found the perfect bottle in the wine merchants, even if it was a bit more money than he'd been intending to spend. Well, they'd only have one twenty-year anniversary, right?

When he got to the vets, Stamford was awake and looking much perkier than he had yesterday, although he didn't have the energy to do more than stand up at the sight of John.

“There you are,” said John, stroking over his head. “Good boy, Stamford.”

Stamford turned to lick over John's hand, then lay back down as if the movement had exhausted him.

John carried him out to the car, waving away the vet's offer of assistance. He wasn't so old that he couldn't carry his dog around. He settled Stamford in, then drove back as slowly as he could get away with, sending glances in the rear-view mirror at him every few moments.

When he drew up in the driveway of the cottage, Sherlock came out. He must have been waiting inside for the sound of the engine. “How is he?”

“He seems better, but pretty tired,” said John, opening the door to pick Stamford up again.

Sherlock inspected him, running his own hand over Stamford's ears. Stamford turned to look up at him. “I am sorry,” Sherlock said to him in a quiet voice. Stamford let his mouth fall open, tongue lolling out, and he struggled briefly against John's arms as if going to leap down, then subsided, apparently realising the effort wasn't worth it.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I put his bed by the fireplace in the sitting room,” he said. “I thought it would be a better place for recuperation than the kitchen.”

Sherlock generally treated Stamford with a sort of distant respect, acknowledging his presence but not directly interacting unless it was completely necessary. John didn't comment on the change in his behaviour as he took Stamford inside and settled him down in his bed, but he did tuck it away in his mind as proof that Sherlock wasn't as ambivalent about Stamford as he liked to pretend.

He went back out to the car to put it in the garage and pulled out the card and wine. He considered trying to conceal them until tonight, but gave the idea up as unlikely to succeed. Sherlock might not be a detective any more, but his observational skills were still as sharp as ever.

Sherlock took the card with little surprise, which meant that he'd worked out why John had insisted on driving himself at some point while he was away, and then squinted at the wine in a way that meant John really should drop more hints about reading glasses.

“Tokay,” he noted, with surprise. “The same vintage as in the van Bork case.”

“I thought it might be nice to treat ourselves,” said John. “Twenty years is reasonably significant, after all.”

“Indeed,” said Sherlock. He cleared his throat. “We can have it with lunch. It should go well with the strawberry tart I have for pudding.”

John noticed that the dining table had been cleared of the assorted papers that usually littered its surface and laid with cutlery, wine glasses and napkins. “Oh, are we having something nice?”

Sherlock nodded. “I thought a shared meal might be a better plan than the chocolate was.”

John smiled and kissed him. “It sounds lovely.” Sherlock usually found cooking to be an intensely boring waste of time but the handful of times he had put in the effort - usually as an apology - it had always been delicious.

Sherlock jerked a nod. “Half an hour, then,” he said, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Lunch was excellent. They drank rather more than John would have thought was a good idea for a weekday lunchtime but that was what retirement was all about, surely? Afterwards, they settled on the sofa with the last of the Tokay, leaning comfortably against each other. Stamford had gone to sleep at some point and John watched him for a while, feeling his own eyelids growing heavy as well.

“I printed out a list and put it up in the kitchen,” said Sherlock.

“Hmmm?” asked John, propping his eyes open for a moment.

“Of things dogs shouldn't ingest,” clarified Sherlock.

“Ah,” said John. “Good.” He let his eyes shut.

Sherlock made a quiet noise of amusement and John felt the wine glass being gently taken out of his hand. He let it go.

A kiss was pressed against his forehead. “Happy anniversary,” Sherlock murmured.

John made a noise of agreement and let himself doze off.


End file.
